Mike India November Echo
by MarInk1485
Summary: Written for the following prompt at cabinpres fic at dreamwidth: Dark but sexy Douglas is very smart, and up until now, Martin doesn't even know those girls are dead, he just assumes they weren't interested when he never heard from them again. Now Douglas has to kill royalty. He'll think of something clever.


Illusions are amazing things. Douglas knows how to create them and shatter them; how to turn them around unsuspecting people like blankets in order to do whatever he wants to do.

For one, Martin's illusions about his being unlovable and unattractive are very handy. Low self-esteem leads to lesser chances of Martin finding someone which leads to lesser chances of Martin ever leaving MJN in general and Douglas in particular; Douglas may be not as good at math as his dear Captain but he is a very logical person.

Not that he's ever willing to take chances. He prefers to cut said chances up and dissect them and rearrange them the way he likes them, until they are in his favour only.

This fine morning the sunrise meets them mid-flight. Martin is way too cheerful for such an early hour; he thanks Arthur absolutely sincerely for the tar-like substance which Arthur calls 'coffee' all the time, and laughs – giggles, to be precise, tender and embarrassed and in some sort of awe – when his phone chirps with a text message.

"Hey, chief," Douglas says, smoothly, but words are not like water today, they are viscous and heavy like honey on his tongue because the chances don't look too good this morning. "I might be wrong, but I think your phone is on. This makes me feel indignant since your wicked phone signals can mess up with GERTI's thought processes, and God knows old girl is confused enough as it is. One thing we could do is to turn your phone decisively off before some red lamp starts shining again and we need to divert. How does that sound to you?"

Martin blushes fiercely, the way only pale gingers can, the blood making his face, ears and neck distinctively pink. In the delicate light of the sunrise it looks worthy of Vermeer's brush.

"I'm sorry, I'm already turning it off, I – I just turned it on for a split second, I swear."

"Well, was the message delivered to Sir by the little invisible postmen riding radio waves worth breaking the rules?" Douglas quips half-heartedly. He needs the information.

"I – well, it – I mean, it was from Theresa." Martin doesn't look at Douglas but his pleased, besotted smile is still in plain view anyway. "I just wanted to check if there was anything from her. Well, there was."

"I see," Douglas says dryly.

Martin fidgets in his chair for a while, apparently convinced that Douglas is miffed over turning the phone on during flight, but then he glances at his now turned off phone again and smiles brightly; and he literally chirps – chirping on duty, Douglas thinks, is never a good sign; as if there weren't enough other bad signs already:

"Film titles that pair up in structure? Like, iThe Good, the Bad and the Ugly/i plus iMe, Myself and I/i."

Pair up, Douglas thinks. Sure.

"iForrest Gump/i and iAmélie/i," he suggests.

His mind, though, is elsewhere.

The others were easy. Small, unimportant creatures; stewardesses and Icarus Removals' single clients, women who no one missed apart from their families. It was beyond simple to catch them unawares and pour illusions of a safe lovely new acquaintance over them. He offered to walk them home from a bar, chatted with them at walk to find out when they finish and wait for them later, knocked on their doors and smiled introducing himself as a new neighbour who was about to cook himself a nice risotto for dinner but found himself short of salt or rice. They were eager to believe and trust and he paid them with his hands on their necks or a knife in their guts.

He pushed one of them off the bridge, and a couple of other ones were oh so careless, leaving their gas on and breathing it in until they breathed no more. He knows to make it look different every time, appear an accident, or suicide, or the result of a faceless burglary.

Theresa is not as simple as them. She's royalty. Admittedly, it's not the kind of royalty anyone actually gives a thought in their everyday life; Liechtenstein is a tiny dot on the map, its royalty performing more of a decorative role than anything, mostly unknown to people outside the country. Still, her death would stink. And small as Liechtenstein was, its princess' death will surely warrant a thorough investigation and a lot of publicity.

Publicity tends to strip the illusions off. Douglas cannot afford that.

He makes plans after plans, discarding them all after some consideration.

After the flight, Martin smiles at Douglas briefly over the table, a smudge of his pasta sauce on his cheek, and answers Arthur's question which Douglas has missed. Carolyn looks at them both with affectionate maternal exasperation, and Douglas' hands itch to lean forward and wipe the sauce off Martin's face.

Martin's laugh is carefree and bright, and his voice is deep with the good kind of tiredness after a day of work.

Theresa is going to take all that for herself, Douglas knows it. They all want it; Martin's shiny eyes, sheepish smile, haphazard ginger curls, lean body, quick but childishly straightforward mind. People tend to want beautiful things even if those already belong to someone. In cases when this someone is Douglas – like in this case – he ensures they don't get away with that.

At night, he can't sleep in the dingy, mould-smelling hotel room. He stares at the ceiling and makes up plans until he comes up with a perfect one.

It's not easy this time. He searches the Internet for information on this and that. He nudges Carolyn in the necessary direction. He talks with lovesick Martin until his teeth ache. He spends his evening indulging in a science he never thought he'd find interesting.

Sometimes he thinks if he should just let things go the way they are, but then Martin loses yet another game, or flicks a lever with a suddenly graceful movement, or hums a stupid pop-song under his breath, and Douglas understands once and once again that the effort is worth the goal.

He feels a bit of remorse after that. Not on Theresa's behalf; on behalf of GERTI which had to be blown up too. See, they were taking Theresa and Maxi from Liechtenstein to Bern (and isn't there a nice coincidental onomatopoeia right there in the name) for them to sign yet more UN treaties declaring constant war on terrorism. Liechtenstein and Switzerland proud themselves for being vigilant about the issue even if they are small enough not to attract any interest from terrorist groups whatsoever; they jump so high and wave their hands to let the big guys know that they are fighting their best too, like grown-ups. Well, grown-ups should face the consequences of what they say and do, don't they?

He blew his home-made bomb on the runway, while they were still on the ground. He wouldn't want the crew hurt; he just wanted to get rid of Theresa. Does it make him a terrorist?

He smiles curtly at the thought. Change of a career at fifty-seven, my, my, Douglas, aren't you an adventurous one.

GERTI lets out huge smoke clouds before a random sparkle gets to the fuel tank, and the world is showered with metal and fire. It's almost like a war, something you only get to see in the movies.

It's a good thing that they all are outside: Douglas, Martin, Arthur and Carolyn – all relatively unharmed, Maxi – with a probably broken arm and in severe shock, and Theresa – dead.

Douglas watches Martin sob helplessly into her dead hair, clutching at her dead forearms. Martin's face is streaked with tears and soot and mud; he's all rumpled, his uniform torn in a couple of places, the top of his right hand crossed by a wide bleeding cut.

Martin is the single most beautiful thing Douglas has ever seen.

He's all Douglas'.

Douglas checks his mental list: Theresa dead, MJN crew alright, GERTI exploded but insured up to the tips of her now-non-existent wings, Martin free from yet another greedy manicured vulture.

All done.

He kneels next to Martin and envelopes him in a hug, friendly, supportive, solid like a rock in these trying times of terrorism and violence.

Martin lets Theresa go to blindly cling to Douglas like to a lifeguard in the middle of a storming sea and cry into his shoulder, silent but struck with mighty hysterical shivers every several seconds.

Douglas lets himself pat Martin's head soothingly and whisper:

"It's going to be alright now. Shh. It'll be alright."

Now, that the order of the things is restored – why ever not, Douglas thinks. It will most probably actually be.

He wonders fleetingly if this is the one illusion he deceives himself with, but the thought doesn't stick, leaving him as fast as it came.

Martin cries.

Douglas hides his face in Martin's ruffled hair and allows himself to smile.


End file.
